Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Fragrant of Gone Time

the purslane you picked for the salad
is dead now; it no longer grows succulent
green, scented tips over finger and mouth
tasted on hungry tongue; and that cat who
followed you so unquestioningly is gone, too;
the house is rundown now, the bed in which
we made love is bare, just a mattress there
with all the bruises and dents we made
in that summer we were the sun and shade
fired beneath skin; hiding the way you'd sit
with me, and the way the cherries smelt
of you, how unfolding pink rosebuds
grew in gardened soil, fertile with golden
rays shining in hair and mind, as we dined
on the purslane you picked for the salad
years ago, now only fragrant of gone time.